


Someday is a Story

by lco123



Category: Folk Songs, RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, based on "Red Side of the Moon" by Trixie Mattel, not actually RPF, not entirely sure how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 10:51:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13996698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lco123/pseuds/lco123
Summary: Marjorie turns to look back at her. “What do you need? To be happy, I mean?”You,Judy thinks automatically.Only you.“I don’t know,” she lies.A fic based on "Red Side of the Moon" by Trixie Mattel.





	Someday is a Story

**Author's Note:**

> I was not expecting to write a 5,000 word fic based on a drag queen's folk song, but "Red Side of the Moon" (listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJH-F5I1_qM) gave me a lot - A LOT - of feelings, so here we go. Tagging this was kind of a mess, so apologies if anything is confusing.
> 
> This fic is meant to take place across the '60's and '70's. As such, trigger warning for homophobia (both internalized and externalized) and an allusion to self-harm.

They meet the first day of eleventh grade. Judy is new in town, and a Chicago high school is a far cry from her old schoolhouse in the country. She would worry about fitting in, but she knows there’s isn’t a point to that, since no matter how hard she tries, she’s bound to stick out like a sore thumb.

She sits alone at lunch, right up until she’s finished eating, and then the prettiest girl she’s ever seen strolls up to her by the garbage can. Judy thinks the girl might make a comment about her dress—an old gingham curtain that isn’t disguising itself very well—but the girl merely extends a hand and a smile.

“I’m Marjorie Maynard,” she says, shaking Judy’s hand. “You must be new. What’s your name?” 

Judy is about to answer when a group of boys clamor through the doorway, taking up all the space around them without a consideration for anyone else. One bumps into Judy, his wide shoulders knocking her forward, not even bothering to toss an apology over his shoulder.

Marjorie reacts immediately, easily breaking Judy’s fall. “Boys,” she says with an eye roll, her body so close that Judy can feel her exhale. Marjorie flutters her eyelashes dramatically, offering a comforting grin, and Judy’s stomach swoops.

Later, she will think of this moment as the beginning of the end.

\--

Marjorie is trying out for cheerleading, so Judy is too.

That’s how things are these days: wherever Marjorie goes, Judy is quick to follow. Some of Marjorie’s other friends call Judy her shadow in a slightly pointed tone, but Judy chooses not to see it as an insult. She’s never had a best friend before, and it feels wonderful.

“Do you think we’ll make the team?” Judy asks before the try-outs.

Marjorie shrugs. She’s pretty good at affecting a nonchalant attitude. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll make a new position for me: official slogan singer.”

“You’d be good at that.” 

Marjorie has a voice like an angel. She got a guitar from her brother for Christmas, and she’s been teaching herself how to play ever since. Judy suggested that she join the school band, but Marjorie seems to like doing her own thing more.

The try-outs go well. Judy is strong but light—a result of limited food but lots of hard work on the farm—and Marjorie shines as soon as she’s in front of an audience. They make the squad without much trouble.

Some afternoons Marjorie will bring her guitar to practice and play a few songs for the girls at the end of the day. Judy will sit closest to her, humming along to the songs she knows, mostly church hymns or old classics that she’d find in her parents’ small record collection.

One day, after all the other girls have left, Marjorie plays a song Judy doesn’t recognize. The melody is sad but beautiful, and the lyrics sound like poetry.

“Who wrote that one?” Judy asks once she’s finished.

Marjorie looks a little bashful. “I did,” she replies. “Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful,” Judy tells her sincerely.

Marjorie shakes her head. “You’re just humoring me.”

“I’m not,” Judy insists. “It’s great. You’re talented.”

“You think so?”

Judy puts a hand on Marjorie’s leg so Marjorie will look at her. “I _know_ so.”

Marjorie’s mouth hangs open for a second, like she doesn’t know what to say to that. Judy stares into her eyes. The air seems a little thicker all of a sudden.

“Ladies, it’s time to go home!” comes the booming voice of the football coach. “The gym is closed!”

Marjorie leaps to her feet as Judy rips her hand away. Her heart is beating fast and her cheeks are hot. 

On the walk home, she can’t shake the feeling that she and Marjorie were caught doing something wrong.

\--

Football season ends and before long it’s the end of the school year. Marjorie and Judy get jobs working at a soda shop near school. They have to wear funny little hats and serve milkshakes to all of their classmates, but it’s worth it to get to spend the long summer days together.

In July, Marjorie’s great-grandmother in Texas dies. Her parents plan a visit down south, but Marjorie will lose her job if she leaves, and besides, she never even met the woman. Her parents say she can stay at home if Judy will stay there with her.

“What do you think?” Marjorie asks with a twinkle in her eye.

Judy tries to contain her delight. She packs up a bag of all her favorite clothes—even though she has to wear the same uniform every day for work—and is over at Marjorie’s house as soon as her folks are out the door.

At night they listen to the radio or watch television, and in the morning they sleep in as late as possible, Judy in a sleeping bag at the foot of Marjorie’s bed, despite Marjorie’s insistence that Judy can take her parents’ room.

“Do you want to invite anyone else over?” Judy asks on a Friday night as they sit on Marjorie’s back porch. She knows the answer she hopes to hear, but she isn’t sure if it’s what Marjorie will actually say.

Marjorie shakes her head, her gaze intent on the cigarette she’s attempting to roll. “I don’t like anyone else as much as I like you,” she says, and Judy is grateful that the moon overhead isn’t likely to illuminate her blush.

A few nights later, they lie out in the tall grass of Marjorie’s yard. It’s so quiet that their breathing starts to sound loud.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Judy says suddenly.

Marjorie sighs. “Forever is a long time.”

Judy nods, her eyes starting to burn. She shouldn’t have said that.

“Maybe every moment is its own forever,” Marjorie adds. It sounds like a line from one of her songs, which have started to sound a little more romantic of late.

Judy turns her head to look at Marjorie, her back still flat on the ground. “Maybe we don’t need forever.”

Marjorie turns to look back at her. “What do _you_ need? To be happy, I mean?”

 _You_ , Judy thinks automatically. _Only you_.

“I don’t know,” she lies.

Marjorie lets that go, instead answering her own question. “I need music, I think. And love, but I figure we all need that.”

Judy isn’t sure what kind of love Marjorie means. Lately Judy’s been thinking that she might not need a boy to love her, because she’s seen the boys at school and she can’t imagine loving a single one of them. If what her parents have is love, then it seems like a lot of work, a lot of tending and minding but not much joy. She tries not to think these thoughts too much, because they leave her confused and lonely, and always, inevitably, circling back to Marjorie.

“We should go inside,” Marjorie says. “It must be getting late.”

That night, as Judy is starting to roll out her sleeping bag, Marjorie wordlessly pull it from her hands and guides her over to the bed. They sleep side-by-side, and in the morning Judy wakes up smiling.

\--

Three weeks later, after Judy has gone back home, Marjorie comes over for a sleepover. She brings her guitar, and she plays Judy a new song she wrote. The lyrics are clearly about the two of them; there are too many details that match up, and beyond that, the way Marjorie is shaking gives it away.

“Well?” Marjorie says when she’s done.

Judy swallows hard. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt like this before, so full of want with nowhere to put it.

“It’s your best song yet,” she tells Marjorie, once she’s found her voice.

Marjorie inhales deeply like the news pleases her. “Thanks. I call it ‘Our Secret.’”

\--

Summer speeds by, and before Judy knows it, she and Marjorie are seniors. The first day of school is full of the usual catching up, girls huddled around their lockers trading gossip. 

“Did you hear?” Betsy Flanagan asks in an excited whisper.

Judy feels her body subconsciously twist away from Marjorie’s, feels Marjorie’s do the same. 

“Hear what?” Marjorie replies.

“About Sarah White’s brother,” Betsy says. “He and another boy at his boarding school were caught by a teacher.”

“Caught doing what?” Judy asks, even though she knows, even though her heart has started to beat a little faster.

Betsy makes a face like she could vomit. “Doing whatever queers do, I suppose.”

Judy swallows hard. “You mean they’re…?” 

Betsy nods. “Yep.”

“That’s disgusting,” Marjorie declares, not looking at Judy.

“It sure is,” Betsy agrees. “And their parents already sent him away, so who knows what they’ll do with him now.” She clicks her tongue. “Poor Sarah. It’s so shameful for the family.”

Judy wants to take Marjorie’s hand, but she knows how strange it would look, so she just stares straight ahead and bites her lip to keep from crying.

\--

Judy’s starting to become a good liar. Mostly, she lies to herself, and mostly, she lies about Marjorie. It isn’t easy or fun, but it’s beginning to come more naturally, like an animal instinct. A self-preservation tactic to keep her alive.

It’s especially challenging when Marjorie looks at her and smiles, or plays guitar, or just generally exists in the same space as Judy. So Judy starts trying to put more space between them. She quits cheerleading to focus on her studies. She wants to go to college, and there are  things to prepare for. She puts her head down and works, works, works. She avoids Marjorie whenever she can.

Of course, Marjorie starts to notice. “Are you mad at me?” she asks Judy.

“No,” Judy replies. “I’m busy, that’s all.”

“You’ve always been busy. You’re just usually busy with me.”

Judy doesn’t laugh, because she’s trying not to cry, but Marjorie must take that as confirmation that Judy’s upset with her.

“See ya around,” she offers, a bit sadly.

Judy wants to call after her, to ask her to stay, but wanting things has the potential to get her into trouble. So instead she tells herself another series of lies: that everything is fine, that sometimes friendships just run their course, that she and Marjorie are different people growing in different directions, that their situation is perfectly normal.

This time, she’s not so convinced.

\--

Judy doesn’t go to prom. She stays home and studies instead. Marjorie is going, she thinks, with a boy in their biology class, but she and Marjorie haven’t spoken much in the last month, so she doesn’t know for sure.

At eleven o’clock on prom night, after her parents have gone to bed and Judy is trying to do the same, she hears a tapping at her window. When she goes to see what it is, Marjorie is standing beneath it in her prom dress, throwing rocks.

Judy wrenches her window open. “What are you doing?!” she demands.

“Can I climb up?” Marjorie asks.

“No! You’ll rip your dress!” Judy huffs out a breath. “I’ll come down, okay? Stay there.”

She creeps outside, doing her best to not disturb the rest of the household, and meets Marjorie out front. Marjorie looks kind of unsteady, like maybe she’s a little drunk or possibly just overcome with emotion.

“I missed you at prom,” she tells Judy. Her words are clear, if nervous sounding, so Judy guesses she hasn’t been drinking.

“I’m sorry,” Judy says, her tone firm.

Marjorie twists her skirt in her fingers. Her gauzy pink dress is beautiful, and she looks absolutely lovely in it.

“Why don’t you want to be my friend anymore?” Marjorie asks. Her expression is so sad that a knot starts to form in Judy’s stomach.

“I do,” Judy says, not sure what the right words are. “It’s…hard for me.”

Marjorie shivers, and Judy fights the urge to wrap her bathrobe around Marjorie’s bare shoulders. “I danced with Charlie Daniels tonight.”

“Oh.” Judy nods. “He’s nice.”

“He is,” Marjorie agrees. “But the whole time, I wondered what it would be like to dance with you.”

Judy struggles to catch her breath. “Marjie—”

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” Marjorie continues. “I can’t stand to think you hate me. Not when I—”

“ _Marjie,_ ” Judy says again, and then Marjorie has stopped trying to explain, and Judy has stopped trying to stop her, because Marjorie is kissing her, and Judy has never been kissed before, but she thinks she understands why people like it. 

Marjorie is kissing Judy, and Judy is kissing back, and life has never been so wonderful or so terrible all that once.

\--

Judy gets into college. Marjorie gets a record deal. 

It all happens in a matter of days. Judy receives a letter from the University of Chicago and a few days after that, a man from a recording studio in New York hears Marjorie singing at church and hands her his card.

“I think it’s fate,” Marjorie says as she’s rehashing the conversation to Judy.

They’re over at Marjorie’s house, up in her bedroom. They haven’t been doing anything but kissing—maybe a bit more; Judy’s top four buttons are undone—but Judy’s brain feels a little foggy nonetheless. These times with Marjorie are less frequent than she’d like and seem to fill her with equal parts overwhelming fear and overwhelming happiness. So this, she surmises, is the joy part of love that she never believed in before.

“Fate,” Judy repeats, turning the concept over in her head. She’s excited to be going to college, and incredibly proud of Marjorie. But the idea of the future, of a someday that might not include Marjorie by her side, feels impossible.

Marjorie pushes some hair out of Judy’s eyes. “I’ll probably have to move to New York.”

Judy nods. She’d been expecting as much.

“I’ll come back to visit, of course,” Marjorie assures her. “And you can come visit me whenever you’re on break.” 

She must note the worry on Judy’s face, because she adds, “It’s far from a done deal. The whole thing could fall through. The guy could change his mind, or we could make a record and it could flop. I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Judy offers her a small smile. “I don’t think you are. We both know how good you are. This is incredible news. There’s no need to pretend it isn’t, not for my sake. You’re going to make it big.”

Marjorie’s lower lip trembles. “I love you,” she whispers.

“You do?”

“I do.” Marjorie presses kisses to the backs of Judy’s shaking hands.

“I love you, too,” Judy manages to get out.

No matter what the future holds, that much she’s certain of.

\--

College is harder than Judy expected it to be, but in some ways that’s a blessing. She’s so distracted by her mountains of work and her job at the University’s book store that it leaves very little time for missing Marjorie. And Marjorie, for her part, is keeping busy as well. She’s recording her album, working with the record label and a producer and song-writers. She explains it all to Judy over the phone, but most of the fancy jargon goes over Judy’s head. Marjorie sounds happy, exhilarated in this new environment, and that’s what matters.

The album is completed in the spring, right around Judy’s break from school. She saves all of her money from the bookstore and buys the cheapest plane ticket from Chicago to New York that she can find. 

Marjorie picks her up at the airport, looking more radiant than Judy remembered. She hugs Judy tightly, hails a cab for the two of them likes she’s been doing it her whole life, and brings Judy back to her shoebox of an apartment.

“It’s small,” Marjorie says. “But no roommates. So I can do this.” 

She kisses Judy deeply, which is what Judy’s been waiting for since her plane touched down. They make love for the first time on a tiny mattress in the middle of Marjorie’s living room. 

Afterward, Judy thinks but does not say that her somedays and forevers are starting to feel a whole lot clearer.

\--

Marjorie performs a small concert in celebration of the album’s release. Judy is there, of course, not clustered in the wings with the wives of Marjorie’s backup band members, but sitting out in the audience. 

Marjorie sounds phenomenal, better than she ever has. Hearing her music like this, projected out to a crowd and amplified by the band behind her, sends a thrill running straight through Judy. As her last song, Marjorie performs “Our Secret,” and Judy has never been more in love.

After the show she wants time alone with just Marjorie, but when she gets backstage the band is all together. She yearns so badly to kiss Marjorie, but settles for hugging her instead. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she says.

Marjorie blinks twice, an acknowledgment of the gravity of the words, before loudly laughing the comment off and putting some distance between her body and Judy’s.

Judy understands why she does it, but that doesn’t stop her heart from hurting.

\--

Judy goes back to Chicago, and then it feels like life really starts to change. 

School starts to become a bit easier, now that she understands the routine of it. But where she truly sees the change is with Marjorie. Her record ends up being far from a flop, and is in fact a huge hit. The record label signs her on for three more. Carole King and Gerry Goffin want to collaborate.

“I never expected this,” she confesses to Judy over the phone. “And so quickly, too.”

Judy tells her that she’s proud, because it’s the truth, but the words have been repeated so often that she worries they’re meaning less and less.

“Can I come visit?” she asks. “Or maybe you could come out here?”

“Oh, jeez,” Marjorie murmurs, like she wasn’t expecting that question at all. “How about I call you in a few weeks? Once everything has settled down a bit.”

Judy agrees, trying to mask her disappointment. 

A few weeks come and go, and Judy doesn’t hear from Marjorie anywhere but the radio.

“She sounds good,” one of her classmates observes. “Who is she?”

“Marjorie Maynard,” Judy replies, beaming. “I know her.”

“Really? How?”

“Just an old friend from school,” Judy lies, easy as breathing.

\--

Marjorie does find time for her, here and there. But everything has changed. How could it not? Marjorie travels with an entourage now, and her speech is punctuated with references to people and places that Judy has no relationship to. Meanwhile, Judy’s mind is expanding in a way completely foreign to Marjorie. That old story Judy used to tell herself about the two of them growing in different directions is starting to feel more possible.

And yet, when they’re alone together, it’s still magic. Judy knows Marjorie like no one else does, and the same is true in reverse. Marjorie can make Judy blush with an innocent touch, can make Judy laugh without even trying. Loving Marjorie has never been the challenge. It’s the rest of the world that’s gotten in the way.

“People are asking questions,” Marjorie reveals one lazy Saturday in New York after they’ve eaten breakfast in bed. They’re at Marjorie’s new, much more spacious but still roommate-free apartment. When Judy looks out the window, she can see Central Park if she squints.

“What kinds of questions?” Judy asks.

“About me. About…why I don’t ever have guys around.”

Judy’s stomach drops. “Oh.”

Marjorie nods and takes a deep breath. “I think maybe you shouldn’t come out here for a while.”

“What do you mean by a while?” Judy asks, sitting up.

“A few months. Maybe longer.” Marjorie bites her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Judy blinks her tears back as best she can. “It’s not your fault.”

“I hope there’ll be a time when it won’t be so complicated,” Marjorie says softly.

Judy squeezes her hand, more for Marjorie’s sake than for her own. 

“Someday.”

\--

College graduation approaches, and Judy knows decisions will have to be made. Her degree will be in education; if there’s one thing she’s learned in the past four years, it’s that she loves learning, and she’d like to inspire that feeling in other young people. She can teach anywhere, she knows, and there’s no logical reason for her to move out of Chicago.

 _Unless_. It’s the _unless_ that keeps her up at night. If Marjorie called and invited her to New York, Judy knows that she’d be on the first flight out. It would be hard, and perhaps not even built to last. But it would be worth trying.

And yet, no call arrives, and time is counting down. Marjorie is hard to reach these days, so Judy pulls a little money out of savings and buys herself another ticket. Besides, she thinks, maybe a surprise will offer some clarity for Marjorie, though hopefully said clarity will work out in Judy’s favor.

She waits outside Marjorie’s apartment building for close to an hour, and then finally there Marjorie is, strolling up with a bag of groceries and four people Judy doesn’t recognize in tow. 

When Marjorie sees Judy, she doesn’t smile. Instead, she looks startled and displeased. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

Judy doesn’t even try to hug her. “I’m here to see you. Can we talk?”

Marjorie waves her encourage off and wordlessly lets Judy into the building. 

“I’m graduating next month,” Judy reminds her. Marjorie still hasn’t replied to the invitation.

“I know,” Marjorie acknowledges softly. “I can’t believe it’s been four years.”

The apartment is clean, but almost eerily so, as if no one has actually been living here.

“I’ve missed you,” Judy says, working hard to remain positive, to remind herself that she will be okay no matter what. “And I wondered if you miss me too.”

Marjorie sighs, plopping her bag of groceries down on the counter. “Of course I miss you. But that doesn’t really change anything. The world isn’t kind. Our lives are so different.”

“They are,” Judy agrees.

“I don’t know why you thought coming here would fix anything,” Marjorie states, her voice sounding tired.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Judy murmurs. “I’m just trying to…”

“Trying to what?”

“Love you, I guess.”

Marjorie chuckles sadly. “According to most people, that’s not easy to do.”

“I’m not most people,” Judy replies.

“No, you’re not.”

She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to talk Judy out of loving her, but doesn’t ask her to stay, either. Judy understands what that means, even if she wishes she didn’t.

“So,” she says when the silence has become unbearable. “This is it, then.”

Marjorie shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just too hard, I think. I’m not strong enough.”

Judy’s first instinct is to reassure Marjorie that she _is_ strong enough, but then she realizes that maybe Marjorie is right. Or maybe she isn’t, but it’s not Judy’s job to sort that out anymore.

As she leaves the apartment, it occurs to Judy that for the first time, she’s the one to leave Marjorie behind.

\--

Life after graduation is hell. Judy is lonelier than she’s ever been. She moves back in with her parents and gets a job teaching at the high school where she met Marjorie, and every day is torture, like walking through a hallway filled with ghosts. She spends most nights alone, up in her room, miserable and hating her life. On a few especially dark occasions, she thinks about the razor blades in her father’s bathroom, wonders what her blood would look like smeared across the white tile in the bathroom. But she’s able to pull herself out of those thoughts, just barely. 

It’s harder when the seasons change. The rain comes, cold and unrelenting, and Marjorie’s latest album is released. It’s her biggest hit yet, playing on the radio at all times. Judy can’t escape it.

“Oh, Marjorie Maynard,” her mother will reminisce when one of her songs comes on. “How wonderful! And you two used to be so close. What happened, Judy? Did you have a falling out?”

“No, Mother,” Judy will reply, another lie to get her through the night. “Nothing happened at all.”

\--

Judy is fired at the end of her first year of teaching. Apparently, her attitude was not deemed warm and friendly by the fellow members of the staff.

“Maybe this is a blessing in disguise,” her mother suggests hopefully. “Time to find a husband, perhaps?”

Judy can’t even entertain that conversation, so she starts looking for more work immediately. As it turns out, a friend of her father’s is moving out west to a ranch, and he’s hoping to build a small school for his friends and family.

“It sounds like a commune,” her mother remarks when Judy shares the news.

“It sounds like an opportunity,” Judy counters.

She packs up her small amount of possessions, including her Marjorie Maynard records, which she still can’t bear to part with, and heads west.

The land is uncultivated and more of a desert than Judy expected. She can tell already that it’s going to be hard work, and that the people she’s surrounded with are very different kinds of folks from the ones she’s used to. 

But when Judy stands on the small spot of land that might just hold a promise, she finally feels like she can breathe again.

\--

Alice drops a bucket of freshly picked tomatoes at Judy’s feet and presses a kiss to her cheek. Her face is tan and shiny with sweat, and her overalls are smeared with dirt. She’s smiling. 

“Think you can do something with these, darlin’?” Alice asks, affecting a slight Southern accent.

Judy laughs and pulls a tomato out of the bucket, bringing it to her nose. “Mmm. Smells great. Thank you.”

“Anytime. The crops are beautiful out there.” Alice wraps her arms around Judy’s waist. Judy doesn’t even think of complaining about the dirt or sweat likely to get on her dress. She doesn’t care. “Though not as beautiful as you,” Alice adds.

“You flirt!” Judy swats at Alice’s backside with a kitchen towel as Alice makes her way over to the living room. 

Their house is small; Alice built it with her own two hands, and she wanted to leave plenty of room for her crops to grow. They don’t need any more space, though, as far as Judy is concerned. It’s just the two of them plus a couple of cats. And the house is close to the school where Judy is both principal and history teacher. Her students all know and love Alice, affectionately calling her “Miss Halstead’s friend” and celebrating whenever she brings over fresh fruit for lunch.

Alice isn’t Marjorie, but that’s kind of the point. Alice, despite her small stature, is a solid woman, strong and capable, confident in who she is, and confident in her love for Judy. They met when Alice was helping to build Judy’s school—and it _is_ Judy’s school, despite how and why it started. The school has flourished because of Judy, and Judy believes she’s flourished because of Alice. 

The two of them aren’t flashy about their love, because they can’t be. But they don’t play games to hide it, either. Sometimes Alice will take Judy out to bars with people like them, where they can dance and drink without worrying about who’s watching. Most of the time, though, it’s the two of them here, safe and cozy in the house Alice built, sturdy on a foundation of their love.

Alice flicks on the small television they have set up in the living room while Judy starts chopping the tomatoes. “ _Ladies and gentlemen, here again at our studio!_ ” the TV host is announcing. “ _The talented Miss Marjorie Maynard!_ ”

The knife slips in Judy’s hand and she feels a cut opening on her palm. She turns on the sink and watches her blood wash down the drain as Marjorie’s voice fills the room.

Marjorie is singing _their_ song. “Our Secret.”

“That Majorie Maynard is a looker,” Alice comments from the living room. 

Alice knows everything about Judy. Every single detail, except for Marjorie. The story seemed so sad and long and complicated, and a part of Judy has always just wanted to keep it for herself. When Alice asked about Judy’s first love, she just said it was a girl back home. 

Alice doesn’t know that some nights Judy will sneak downstairs and listen to Marjorie on the radio, rolling herself a cigarette like Marjorie taught her how to do all those years ago.

Judy presses a dish rag to the cut. It stings a bit, but it’s not bleeding too badly. She focuses on the pressure as Marjorie finishes up her song.

“ _Actually, I have to correct you_ ,” Marjorie chirps to the host after she’s done singing. “ _It’s not Miss Maynard anymore! I got married last week. I’m Mrs. Marjorie Sullivan now!_ ”

So that’s how it is, Judy thinks to herself. She slowly walks into the living room, keeping her gaze facing her hand rather than the television. She sits down on the arm of Alice’s chair.

“She’s pretty, huh?” Alice asks.

Judy doesn’t answer. She doesn’t want to lie anymore.

It’s then that Alice notices Judy’s hand, and she touches it with concern. “Oh, hun. Are you okay?”

Judy finally looks up at the screen, but the program is over. Marjorie is gone. 

And Alice is here, pressing gentle fingers to Judy’s skin. Not a far off someday, but a here right now, and a probably forever.

Judy smiles and nods. “Yeah,” she answers, the honest truth. “I think I’m just fine.”


End file.
